


Wines for the Monsoon Season

by morningmikan



Category: JUDGE EYES: 死神の遺言 | Judgment, 龍が如く | Ryuu ga Gotoku | Yakuza (Video Games)
Genre: Drabble Collection, Gen, M/M, see individual chapters for specific warnings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:48:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26153716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morningmikan/pseuds/morningmikan
Summary: A depository for sections cut out of other works or WIPs, failed experiments, or short little things that don't go anywhere - small moments that hopefully stand fine on their own.Chapter titles will reflect pairings so you can skip around. I hate giant page-long tags, so please read author's forward notes for specific content warnings. This collection will be updated whenever I have something for it. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
Relationships: Higashi Toru/Yagami Takayuki, Kaito Masaharu/Yagami Takayuki
Comments: 16
Kudos: 37
Collections: RGG Love Week





	1. two cats and a pack of dogs (Yagami x Higashi)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pairing: Yagami x Higashi
> 
> Nothing spicy here, just a Yagami/Higashi moment snipped out of "Winters" for brevity. And a cameo by your favourite sleazy-sexy uncle.
> 
> It's not necessary to read "Winters" to get context for this piece, but this DOES take place postgame.
> 
> Shared as part of #yakuzararepair week, Day 2: Danger

They meet at Cafe Alps, not Higashi’s first choice but Yagami likes their coffee and it was near enough to Yagami’s agency that they could easily walk over. To Yagami’s delight, the cafe had a “Valentine’s Week” couples promotion on their sweet drinks and Higashi grudgingly paid for some vanilla-raspberry concoction for the both of them. He didn’t find the savings of 400 yen worth Yagami clinging to his arm and cooing over him to coax the cashier into the discount.

“I would have been fine to pay full price,” grumbles Higashi as he sips gingerly from his cup, screwing up his face as the cloying sugar and artificial flavours coated his tongue.

“But then I would’ve missed scandalising the cashier since I did the same thing earlier this week with Kaito,” Yagami said airily as he drank his coffee with relish.

Higashi stares.

“I’m _kidding_. I was just trying to be a pal.”

“Then try less.”

Yagami throws back his head and laughs as they walk up Nakamichi Street, and Higashi has to rip his eyes away from the glimpse of Yagami’s bare throat over his scarf. He scowls into his drink - what’s the point of novelty coffees if the flavour isn’t distracting enough to keep him from imagining himself working his tongue down the line of Yagami’s throat? Useless.

“Head office wanted to ask if the Keihin are somehow involved with the current case,” Higashi says abruptly. “The timing of their arrival into Kamurocho and how their street-level chaos covered for weapons dealing is suspect, so we wanted to investigate for any connections.”

“Hm, reasonable line of inquiry,” Yagami mused as they crossed the street. “Their original turf is Shinagawa from what I found, though it’s not the biggest stretch that they might do business in Kansai.”

Yagami made a face.

“That is to say, _Koga_ would’ve done business in Kansai. His weirdo lieutenants, I don’t think so.”

Higashi raised his eyebrows. “You mean they don’t help him run the operation?”

“Let me put it this way - I busted their boss but _they’re still in town_ , and I don’t think it’s to continue gun running.” Yagami kicked at a lump of ice, looking petulant.

“If Koga ran it like a yakuza family, by necessity he’d need guys he can trust to run the business if something happened,” Higashi says, sidestepping with a turn around a grey pile of shoveled snow without losing pace. “If the guys you’re thinking of can’t do it, then doesn’t it beg the question if Koga was the top boss at all?”

“Huh, you’re real graceful when you want to be,” Yagami mumbles, and Higashi turns to him in confusion. “I hadn’t thought of Koga having his own boss if I’m honest,” Yagami continues without pause. “I was too busy just dealing with the guys jumping me every other street corner.”

Yagami sighs and dolefully sips from his cup again. The mischief had fallen away and he only looked tired, his mouth not even turning up at the corner in an attempt to project smug confidence. He tucks an errant lock of his growing hair behind his ear, and Higashi can see the small scar at his hairline from the stitches that were removed a bare week ago.

_Thunder and rain, a shattered glass facade, Yagami standing between two dead bodies before he collapses between them. Ozone and blood tainted air. The hand that held the blade of divine judgment limp in a sterile gurney before the ambulance doors slam shut._

Higashi raises a hand and tentatively reaches for Yagami’s shoulder when he hears running footsteps behind them.

“ _YAGAMI!”_ shrieked a nasal voice.

Higashi spun to see a snarling man with a punch perm and a terrible jacket come barrelling down the street towards them, flanked by far too many men for a guy who looked like a chinpira whose sense of fashion was still locked in the year 2004.

“Case in point,” Yagami says with a grimace.

Higashi grunts as he falls into a fighting stance and kicks the first idiot trying to land a piece of lumber across Higashi’s shoulders. “This just feels like a grudge.”

“I mean -” Yagami strikes his palm across the nose of a heavy and pivots his torso sideways to avoid a punch to his face “- _yes_ , but this mass mobbing thing is new?” He snaps his elbow into the jaw of a guy with a crowbar while wrenching the weapon away, sending him stumbling backwards.

“Are you incapable of ever _not_ escalating shit?” Higashi yells as he spins on his heel and grabs the unsteady ex-crowbar guy in a headlock and slams his momentum into the cement. 

“I was just helping a girl at a yakiniku restaurant! How was I supposed to know it’d end up like this?” Yagami complained as he reversed the hold a grunt had on him and sent him face-first into the planters outside a cafe. He winced as the clay pots shattered on contact, and waved an apology at the distressed manager inside.

The two of them fell into the fray without further comment, gravel and litter and slush kicked up into the air as they worked through the crowd back-to-back, a spinning wheel made of eight limbs that struck and kicked and parried. Yagami ran up the side of a wall and pushed off, turning his own body into a projectile as he slammed through two men, clearing a path for Higashi to leap overhead with a flying knee strike to the face of the screaming punchperm and send his sunglasses clattering into the road.

“Fuck _yeah_ , here we _go_ Yagami!” yelled a new voice, and Higashi barely got out of the way in time as a giant man in a tanktop and army fatigues barreled into the detective and sent him flying. Yagami turned like a cat midair and managed to land on his feet as his momentum skidded him backward, one hand scraping on the ground to stop his face turning into a red streak on cement. He comes to a stop with a poise, sunlight catching on his hair and illuminating the black leather jacket molded along the sinuous curve of his spine.

_Infuriating._

Yagami ruins the moment by looking aggrieved enough that he might wring his hands, were he not using them to spin the now-bleeding punchperm into his own boys. “Why is _he_ also here?” Yagami yells as he turns to the giant. “Weren’t you in _jail_?!”

“Bailed out, baby! Back for another dance!” the huge man shouts.

“You have really predictable taste,” Higashi says with a click of his tongue as he watches the newcomer flex and grin excitedly as he pummels his chest and roars. “Can’t you use a dating app like everyone else?”

“Did … did you just make a joke?”

Higashi’s reply was drowned out by the thundering feet of _more_ incoming Keihin men, and suddenly a standard Kamurocho street brawl became something entirely more sinister. Even the Tojo picked their targets carefully whenever they dispatched their men in droves like this, but for a gang hunting down a single civilian this was extreme overkill. A simple grudge didn’t explain it - they wanted the pleasure of grinding Yagami into the asphalt and to drag the corpse along Nakamichi Street past a gallery of baying dogs demanding flesh and blood. 

They need to leave - they needed to leave _yesterday._

Yagami slammed a pylon into the closest lackey before grabbing Higashi by the hand and pulled him away through the gap he created, Higashi too surprised to do anything except to hold on and _run_.

“No insult to your skills, you’re amazing, but this is outta our league for now!” yells Yagami as he leads them through the narrow gaps of Nakamichi Alley and up towards the tarpaulined behemoth that used to be Little Asia.

“You’re _kidding,_ ” Higashi says as he hesitates underneath the scaffold Yagami had just clambered onto.

“We’ve seen enough hospitals, don’t you think? Come _on_!” Yagami calls out impatiently. Higashi growls in frustration as he hauls himself up after him, the shouts and hammering of heavy feet encroaching in the distance.

Yagami ducks down and under and Higashi follows, dropping into crawl spaces between tarps and metal rods and spooking a pair of idling construction workers taking a smoke break under a nook. Yelling and now the unmistakable sound of gunshots follow them and Yagami curses under his breath, leading them both up a fire escape ladder onto the roof of a building that had once been the towering crown jewel of Little Asia. Even here Yagami doesn’t stop and _leaps_ over the gap to the next building, and Higashi doesn’t think as he follows and jumps off the edge of the tiled roof after him.

_Midair, bright, cold wind on your face, limbs swimming through the atmosphere ten storeys high. You land and you live or you miss and you die, and there is nothing, absolutely nothing in between._

He lands hard onto cement and rolls to his feet, knees trembling and coltish and he’s _giddy_ from the realisation that he was _still alive_. Higashi stumbles forward to keep moving, his legs turning into stones and his lungs burning a hole in his chest but he still runs and runs after Yagami’s back, leaping again into the air to cross buildings and careening around fenced walkways, their tandem steps in rhythm even as they land back on ground level and keep going.

Eventually they are in an alley off Tenkaichi, feet hammering the steel staircase as Yagami leads them up a fire escape to a third floor back door and throws himself against it desperately.

The door remains resolutely shut.

Higashi slumps against the wall and takes in deep gasps of air, the adrenaline dissolving inside the fibres of his exhausted muscles. He glances over to Yagami, who can barely stand as he picks the lock, sweat running into his eyes and causing his hands to slip clumsily. Higashi drags himself up and stumbles over, reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief and clapping it to Yagami’s brow. Yagami grunts a thanks, and the lock finally clicks open.

They stumble into a lit office, mostly well-organised save for the largest desk by the windows barely visible under sheafs of paper and open binders. Food wrappers and an overflowing cigarette tray occupy the small coffee table between two opposite sofas - the space was empty of anyone but clearly in use. Yagami shuts the door with some care behind them, locking it before he collapses to the ground. Higashi groans as he sags to the floor beside him, head between his knees as he takes slow breaths to ride out the nausea of complete exhaustion.

“Didn’t … didn’t think you’d keep up like that,” Yagami pants. “You coulda … left me back at Little Asia, taken a side route.”

“I don’t like you, but I don’t want you dead,” Higashi mutters, head knocking back into the door with a dull thud. “People change.”

Yagami’s wheezy giggles catches, and Higashi smirks as he closes his eyes. It’d be fine, maybe, if he just took a rest …

A weight slowly drops onto Higashi’s shoulder, and he feels hair brush against his jaw. His breath stutters, and he doesn’t know if it’s fatigue from his weary lungs or realising that Yagami has tucked his head into the crook of his neck and shoulder. He can feel Yagami’s chest rise and fall as he breathes, deep and slow and in rhythm with Higashi’s own breathing. Somehow, from the well of his exhaustion Higashi draws up the desire to lean his cheek against the crown of Yagami’s head.

It isn’t so terrible.

Yagami whispers, “Well, _I_ like you, and I also don’t want you dead.”

Higashi feels his ears heat as he turns his head in surprise, finding himself bumping Yagami’s nose with his own and their eyes meeting. Higashi’s throat tightens as the moment lengthens, a taut string of tension thrumming between them that sings a note along his nerves he wants to neither name nor hear. It rings in his burning ears and deafens, until it suddenly dies away to leave only the sound of the soft kiss pressed to his parted lips.

He’s too bewildered to move at first, letting Yagami break the kiss with an embarrassed huff before Higashi moves forward to follow that mouth and catch it against his own. Yagami’s lips are dry, almost chapped, and his mouth tastes strange from sweetened coffee and the tang of blood - Higashi’s is probably no better, despite the enthusiasm of Yagami’s tongue sweeping into his mouth. It takes everything he has to not make a noise when Yagami’s hand slips under his collar to gently brace against his neck, but it’s a close thing, and he’ll go to his grave before he admits it.

“Ah, this is very romantic, but could you please not do it in my office while I’m trying to take a nap?”

Higashi and Yagami fly apart, Higashi’s collar askew and his face in flames, and a dozy-eyed man slouches over the top of the sofa whose back faced the door, his chin resting on his hands like a curious child.

“A - Akiyama-san,” Yagami coughs, brushing his hair away from his face and smoothing out his jeans as he stands. “I didn’t realise you were in.”

“Yagami-sensei, I’m a serious businessman, I keep all kinds of hours to do serious business,” Akiyama says solemnly before he yawns. “But if you want to use my office as a makeout spot, try breaking in between 8PM and midnight on the weekends, I’ll be out and Hana-chan will be at home.”

Akiyama winks at Higashi.

“Make sure to clean up after yourselves, though.”

Higashi shuts his eyes and wishes he had dropped off the side of that building in Little Asia after all.


	2. two ships passing in the afternoon (Kaito x Yagami - gen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kaito/Yagami but they don't really do anything with each other here so you can consider it genfic, really.
> 
> Takes place during the events of Yakuza 1, when Yagami is in his early 20s and studying nights for his bar exam. Imagine, if you will, _Yung KimuTaku with the long hair_ , and you'll understand why Kaito can't keep his eyes off him. 
> 
> Cut from a WIP because while it's fun to imagine young Kaito & Yagami meeting Kiryu & Haruka in 2005, it didn't contribute to the wider story for something so long.
> 
> Shared as part of #yakuzararepair week, Day 3: Past

“Been staring at that page for a while, Kaito-san. You all right?”

Kaito jerks in surprise, the magazine dropping out of his hand to the floor.

“Dozed off,” he mumbles, picking up the magazine.

“Oh? With your eyes open? Looked more like _deep thoughts_ to me,” Ta-bo grins, leaning forward and resting his chin on his folded arms. “Tell me everything, I wanna know what Kaito Masaharu thinks about during lazy afternoons.”

Kaito reaches over the desk between them and smacks Ta-bo on the head with the magazine, absolutely ignoring how Ta-bo looks at him from under his lashes. “Thinkin’ bout how you talk too much for a guy who’s gotta sit the bar exam tomorrow,” he grunts.

“ _Fuck, ow -_ I’m taking a break!”

“Then pack up and study at home, why do I gotta watch your ass here?”

Ta-bo huffs out a breath of air and slumps back against his chair, sliding along the wheels like a petulant kid, the cheap metal frame creaking loudly. “I’ve been there three weeks straight staring at the same five textbooks and I will _lose my mind_ if I don’t talk to someone else besides oyasan or my fucking classmates.”

He leans his head over the back of the chair and covers his eyes, his sloppily tied long hair falling out and dangling. He could be called _pretty_ , like the hosts posted along the Shichifuku parking lot’s billboards, except Ta-bo had a week’s worth of patchy stubble and smelled of cigarettes and conbini yakisoba, the signature cologne of an exhausted student. As he was now, Kaito wouldn’t trust him to remember which drink to get at a vending machine, much less light his cigarettes for him and try to sucker him into buying bubbly.

“Besides,” Ta-bo says, one hand still covering his eyes and the other now pointing up at the air like some pompous lecturer. “The abuse of my position as the adopted son of Matsugane Mitsugu in using the family office to study because I’m lonely is a minor offense in the long list of yakuza infractions.” He peeks out from under his hand and gives a winning smile. “Am I wrong?”

Kaito scowls. “If you’re lonely then go sit with one of the girls at Emerald Hills - “

“Can’t afford it.”

“Then Pink Bubble - “

“Place smells like sadness.”

“You fuckin’ telling me you got a face like that and ya can’t call up some college girl and bother her instead?”

“I wanna bother _you_ , though.”

A loud shout on the street below cuts off Kaito’s retort and the two of them share a glance before bolting towards the window. Kaito shoves it open and both of them lean down to look into the street below.

A pack of colour gang kids have a tall middle aged guy in a dated grey suit surrounded, jeering and demanding his money. Typical ossan hunting shit, except _this_ ossan looked less afraid than he did _annoyed_. Even from a second floor window across the street, the man’s face is immediately recognisable from the clan periodicals: stony, unmovable, _legendary._

“What the hell, the guy’s got a kid with him,” Ta-bo frowns, catching sight of a little girl in a white hoodie who was strangely serene in front of a pack of leering men. “I’m gonna go help -“

“Wait, _hold on -_ ”

As usual, Kaito was too late to stop him - Ta-bo cracked the window fully open, clambered onto the sill, and _leapt_.

Take a moment and picture this: Ta-bo jumping out a second-storey window in Kamurocho, suspended in midair with his streaming hair catching the afternoon sun. Kaito, leaning half out the window himself, shouting into the street with his heart in his throat while a surprised little girl screams and drops her bag of groceries with a clatter.

Ta-bo crashes on top of three gangsters and rolls to his feet because _of course he does_.

“Hi! Sorry to scare you,” Ta-bo says cheerfully to the girl, dusting off his jeans. “I’m just here to help your dad.”

Kaito starts to bark with laughter, lightheaded from sheer relief, and bolts out of the office and down the flight of steps onto the street. He runs up just in time to see a gangster with a stupid headband try to land a punch on the old man, only to have his fist caught and his entire body wrenched to one side and kicked into a utility pole.

_Fuck, it really is him._

“He’s not my dad. And he doesn’t need help,” the girl says.

Ta-bo stares at the groaning body lying on the sidewalk. “... so I see.”

Acknowledging neither Kaito or Ta-bo, Kiryu Kazuma spaces out his feet, lifts both his fists in a balanced stance, and waits. 

One guy tries to leap at him with a baseball bat, and instead gets redirected midair by the collar of his jacket into his buddy; a third tries to kick at him and gets dodged around, placed in a headlock, and has his head bounced off a railing. The noisy one who got wrecked first is back up, screams something that he really shouldn’t in front of a kid, and gets five punches in speedy succession to the gut for his efforts.

“Oniisan, are you yakuza?” the girl asks, gently tugging Ta-bo’s shirt hem and paying absolutely no attention to the fight in front of her.

“Me? No, I’m a student,” Ta-bo responds in confusion.

“Law student,” Kaito corrects.

“Ooh, wow,” she says, halfway impressed.

Baseball bat boy is screaming into his phone, face bloody, and in seconds three more fucking guys show up. Not like it matters - before Kaito can even finish putting his fists up, the backups get sliced through by a _bicycle_ , which then gets thrown at a fourth guy who shows up late. Suddenly the scene just feels a little too familiar, and Kaito gets a phantom sympathy pain on the back of his head.

There’s one last guy though: bigger than all of them, and smarter too, going by how he hung back and watched before he takes out a tanto he has no business having. It’s some shitty mass-produced thing, but a big knife’s a big knife, and he runs up at Kiryu without a word.

“ _Ojisan!_ ” the girl yells.

There’s something that sounds like a _whumf_ and then knife guy goes fucking _flying_.

The unlucky shit sails across the street, smacks into a parked car like a sack of meat and collapses into a heap, tanto clattering along the asphalt out of reach. Ta-bo seizes Kaito’s shoulder and he can feel the excitement causing Ta-bo’s grip to tremble, electricity sparking between them as they stare in mute awe. Kaito's own hand comes up to grip Ta-bo's and complete the circuit, their knuckles white from the exhilaration of witnessing a battle well fought - too enthralled to know better for being in public.

Two of the first guys who were struck out haul themselves back up again, cursing and snarling threats as they pick up street trash for weapons and lurch towards Kiryu. Gutsy and dumb as hell - you had to give them some credit for persevering.

 _Whumf._ Into the standing sign for a snack bar.

 _Whumf._ Into the same parked car as the first guy who went flying. The passenger door’s got a dent now.

Kaito feels Ta-bo squeeze down at each perfect hit Kiryu lands, those underhand strikes delivered with such force and speed that Kaito couldn’t even tell _where_ or _how_ the hit landed so hard as to make a human body take flight. It’s thunderous, a show of power so overwhelming that it made adrenaline start vibrating in his skin and the tiniest jolt of fear speed down the middle of his spine.

How fucked up would he get, exactly, if he waded in there and got hit too? Could he brace himself fast enough so he _doesn’t_ shoot through the air and end up in Shibuya?

He doesn’t follow that train of thought for long, too busy watching the colour gang boys finally have a collective brainwave that they’re shitfucked and scramble off in a panic. Kaito’s legs itch to chase them and work off the haze of sitting idly in an office for too long, but he has a baby lawyer-to-be to watch in case he fucking jumps out a window again.

“So … does this happen a lot?” asks Ta-bo gently as he helps the girl pick up her dropped shopping.

“Mmhmm - it’s really annoying, but ojisan’s good at dealing with it. Thank you for trying to help, even though you must be busy.”

They’re a pretty picture, Ta-bo tall and lanky and crouching down to listen to a cute little kid, the girl holding her yellow Don Quijote bag in both hands as she swings it idly. They both have charming smiles and sparkling eyes, and Kaito has to laugh: this is what two different generations of Kamurocho scammers look like when they have a nice conversation on the street.

A deep, stern voice rumbles behind Kaito. “Haruka, don’t talk to hosts unless you know them from Stardust.”

“He’s not a host, he’s a _lawyer_ ,” she says loftily.

“A host? Come on,” Ta-bo mumbles to himself as he stands. Kaito tries desperately to catch Ta-bo’s eye, tries to send him the psychic message _please don’t be a smartass prick in front of the Dragon of fucking Dojima please don’t fucking embarass us right in front of the family’s goddamn office._

Kiryu Kazuma looms, and Ta-bo just ducks his head in greeting and waves. “Hey! Nice work back there.”

Kaito will _kill him_.

“Good afternoon. You’re a lawyer?” Kiryu says with his eyebrows furrowing tighter.

“Student, just a student,” Ta-bo says quickly as he waves a hand in dismissal. “I only have authority over books and tuition, I can’t do anything about, you know.” He gestures at the last of the colour gang members limping around the block.

“I don’t know many law students who jump from windows and keep company with yakuza,” Kiryu says as he nods towards Kaito, who bows in half.

Ta-bo smiles and shrugs. “Well, I was studying when I heard the commotion. Kaito-san here just wanted to make sure I didn’t eat pavement when I rushed over.”

“Is that so?” asks Kiryu as he stares implacably, moving his gaze to Kaito for a better answer.

“Sir,” Kaito says stiffly as he bows low again, blood rushing to his head and a traffic jam of words colliding inside his mouth as he grasps for etiquette in front of a living goddamn legend. 

He manages: “It’s, uhh, complicated.”

_Great job, dumbass._

Kiryu looks to Ta-bo, who shrugs and tries to look casual by tying his hair back, and back to Kaito, who suddenly feels very hot and sweaty. He keeps his eyes fixed on Kiryu’s white leather shoes as his brain desperately spins its wheels to nowhere. _Did he wear those when he went to jail? How do they stay so clean?_

He chances a glance up, and something appears to dawn on Kiryu as his eyebrows raise and eyes widen slightly. Kaito’s not fully certain he likes the conclusion drawn.

“Oh, I get it now. There really are all types of people nowadays, huh.”

“S-sir?”

“Nevermind, just an old man’s muttering,” Kiryu says. “Are you Tojo Clan?”

“Yes, the Matsugane group. We’re a branch family - our office is just across the street.”

A shadow flickers across Kiryu’s face and Kaito suddenly feels his guts grow cold, the sensation of having just skated past something dangerous passing over his skin. Everyone knows Kiryu Kazuma was expelled, but no one said you couldn’t be _polite_ to the guy when you just saw him take out an entire gang by himself. Right? Right.

“I see. I’m not here to cause you trouble,” Kiryu says finally, taking the bag from Haruka. “We’re just going home. Thank you for checking on us.”

Kaito bows as Kiryu and Haruka pass, only for Kiryu to double back after a whispered conversation with her. He stands in front of Ta-bo and gravely hands him a Staminan.

“Haruka says you’re sitting the bar exam in the morning. Take this to help focus on studying tonight. Make sure you do your best so that whatever happens after, you'll never be ashamed,” Kiryu intones.

Ta-bo accepts the energy drink with both hands, for once rendered speechless.

“I ... uh ... thank you?”

Kiryu grunts and walks back to Haruka, nodding at Kaito who bobs low again like an oversized drinking bird toy. Haruka yells encouragement to Ta-bo and a goodbye for Kaito as they leave, sweet and bright as the afternoon sunlight as she trails after a man bearing a heavy aura of violence and destiny.

A long silence passes before Ta-bo finally speaks.

“He absolutely thinks we’re fucking.”

Kaito splutters as Ta-bo pats him on the shoulder and meanders back to the office, Kaito beet-red and cursing after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yagami absolutely learned Tiger Drop by being a creep who follows Kiryu around each time he sees him in Kamurocho and _most certainly_ practiced the move on Kaito until he finally could land it. Love is great.


	3. the prettiest girl in Shangri-La (Saeko & Ichiban - gen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very short little thing for #rgglovewk21 Day 1: "Affirmation" but interpreted very loosely. Saeko and Ichi in what is basically an extended party chat inside a taxi.
> 
> Much thanks for Tofu whose moniker for Ichi I gratuitously stole for for the end huhuhu.

“You’re so chatty, we could use that kinda stamina at my club.”

“Yeah? Lemme work your floor then, I’ll wring those salaryman wallets dry for ya.”

Icchan grins his ever-bright smile as he waves off the umpteenth local he’s spoken to today, his plastic bag of nikuman from a nearby stall swinging along his elbow. The warming weather and lingering sun seems to give him more energy, his mane of flyaways catching the light and giving her the impression of a giant dandelion. He even has the audacity to start whistling to himself.

“It’s a host _ess_ club, I don’t hire guys,” she says, barely restraining a smile.

“Now that’s just close-minded thinking’,” Icchan pouts. “Betcha I could be a _great_ hostess, your number one gal in my first week.”

“You’re gonna be the same age as most of the clients though.”

He squints at her. “I’m _vintage_. Lotsa guys are into vintage wines, vintage cars, vintage girls -”

Saeko laughs, letting him work himself into a light tizzy of indignation as she hooks her arm around his elbow that wasn’t currently occupied with groceries and steers him towards the taxi rank. He goes on about _returning trends_ and his _youthful energy_ and _how much different is it from hosting as a guy anyway it’s not like I didn’t already learn how to use makeup and shit from that gig._

“You’d have to do way more,” she says as they climb into the back of the cab. “Like, contour and highlighter and false eyelashes - do you even know how to apply those?”

“Fifteen seconds,” he replies far too promptly.

Saeko stares.

“Fifteen seconds to get the glue the right kinda sticky so it doesn’t slide off your eyelids and leave shit all over your real lashes. Then if you really gotta make an impression you wait for it to set and slap another pair on top, get the eyes real big like you’re the heroine of a shoujo manga.”

Icchan puts his hands over his eyes and starts to flap his fingers as if they were massive eyelashes, his own eyes opened as wide as possible and blinking winsomely.

“ _Ooh Mr Client, I’m so happy you’re here to see Icchan today!”_ he says in a dubious falsetto. “ _You look like you had a long day! Let’s get something sweet and bubbly to wash the stress away - Icchan wants to see you smile!”_

Saeko punches him in the shoulder. “Never do that voice again.”

“ _Ow fucking hell -_ ”

“How did you know all that anyway?”

Icchan looks up at her from rubbing at his shoulder, the grimace on his face easing off into confusion.

“Huh? Oh yeah, I learned it from the girls at the soapland I grew up in,” he said as he leaned back in his seat. “They’d get me to pick up stuff like makeup or whatever from the drugstore down the street or the Donki, and the shit they wanted was all different so I had to learn a whole buncha stuff so I wouldn’t buy the wrong thing with their money.”

He trails off and looks out the window, watching the buildings pass by as the taxi eased itself onto the highway. He looks wistful now, eyes not focused on anything outside, and Saeko silently curses herself for stumbling into one of the few topics that makes him go unnaturally quiet.

“That was really sweet of you,” she says softly.

Icchan coughs a laugh. “Nah, they were always taking care of me when I was super young so it was the least I can do, yeah? They had a tough job and on their breaks they’d still play with me or read me books. They’d help me with my homework too, when I got a bit older.” He grins to himself at some private memory, and Saeko can’t help but smile. “No skin off my nose to learn which mascara does what and how to clip coupons for lipstick promotions.”

There’s a lull as the memory of a twelve year old orphan boy running between the drunk pedestrians of Kamurocho to buy medicine and makeup fills the taxi. He wouldn’t just be buying a new tube of mascara - it’s condoms, it’s thick creme foundation to mask bruises, it’s lotions for severely dehydrated skin from being constantly in and out of hot water. Energy drinks, bandages, throat lozenges, cheap replacement lingerie. Embarrassed women asking a child to help them stay acceptable for an unpredictable clientele, and him only nodding and never thinking twice about extending a small hand to help.

Not for the first time, a deep fondness stirs in Saeko’s chest while a piece of her heart also breaks.

“A runner for the working girls, huh?” Saeko murmurs approvingly. “Now _that_ you can definitely do at my club.”

“ _Right_? Five, ten - hell, _twenty_ girls with different orders! Blush and eyeliner and foundation and powder and that glittery shit that always gets inside your eyelid - I won’t miss a single thing!” Icchan hoots before he beams at Saeko.

Saeko laughs, but suddenly stops as a thought occurs to her.

“Wait ... we’re talking about _buying_ makeup, not _applying_ it.”

She glances at Icchan and his eyes dart to the side as his expression becomes evasive. “Icchan,” she says evenly. “Where did you learn to _apply_ that kind of makeup?”

“Dunno what you’re tryna get at, Sacchan,” he says gruffly. “I’m just a good listener -”

“‘Glittery shit that gets inside your eyelid’,” she quotes, now scooting closer to Icchan as a mischievous smile spreads across her face. “That’s a little too much _personal experience_ for a preteen boy.”

He tries to back away and ends up wedged into the door and the edge of the back seat, sliding down low as Saeko looms over him with impish delight.

“ _Oh my god they put makeup on you as a kid_.”

“Hey! They needed to test out any new shit I got for them before clients got there!” he protested. 

Saeko nearly chokes with glee. “ _They did it more than once!_ ”

“Sacchan, c’mon, don’t say it so loud -”

“ _Kasuga Ichiko!”_

“That doesn’t even make any goddamn sense!” he wails.

The taxi driver coughs politely only for the two of them to ignore him, and the rest of the drive back to Survive Bar is spent with Icchan’s face buried in his hands in embarrassment as Saeko cackles and plots loudly how to bring back “The Prettiest Boy in Shangri-La”.


	4. at sea in a lifeboat (Takabe Mamoru - gen)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ruminations of Takabe Mamoru about the sorrows and strangeness of his new life and the unexpected blessings that arrived.
> 
> Takes place post-Y7, this is your only warning for spoilers.
> 
> Written as part of #rgglovewk21 Day 3: Giving/Receiving Gifts

You are Takabe Mamoru, and you have just survived the most disastrous attack on the Seiryu Clan since the 1970s. It does not comfort you at all that the body count was lower than it could have been - what matters is that the body count included the Chairman, and the shame of failure pierces deep into the gut of you where the two bullets from Sawashiro’s gun did not.

The news filters in via hushed conversations of your lieutenants who visit your bedside, the whispers from the Korean orderlies who are clearly part of Geomijul’s network, and Mukoda Nanoha’s sister who visits with a homemade bento that is clumsily made but is the first meal that doesn’t taste of ash the moment it hits your tongue.

_The Tojo and Omi have dissolved_

_Totsuka and Mabuchi have fled Yokohama_

_The Governor of Tokyo is dead_

The last one is bewildering, and the pork katsu separates from its fried skin and drops back onto the rice as your hand stops midway to your mouth. You pinch the chopsticks once, some aborted movement as the confusion delays any reaction, and you have to set them down on the tray as you stare at Mukoda Saeko and realise she is dressed in mourning black.

You turn back to your lunch and try not to think about ghosts, and nearly choke when Mukoda tells you that Kasuga Ichiban made your bento and that is why the katsu is misshapen and the decorative paper dividers are cut unevenly. She apologises sheepishly as you swallow a mouthful of too-rich curry and try not to let her see you smile when you finally find the handwritten card tucked inside the lid.

Kasuga Ichiban’s handwriting is atrocious, and you keep the card in your wallet for sentimental reasons that will elude you for years.

When you leave the hospital you fall headfirst into one painful ritual after another: the funeral service for Chairman Hoshino and the mandatory but bitter ceremony for inheriting his seat too soon, too soon. 

Kasuga and his comrades attend the funeral, lay a flower and burn incense, sit quietly towards the back pews to let the clan’s mourning occupy the forefront of everything. Even Seong-hui is there, and the Seiryu men who have stayed on know better than to question the sincerity of her presence. When you walk past her to approach the front and send up your own prayer, you see she is holding Kasuga’s hand and he is swiftly wiping his eyes with his sleeve before nodding at you.

You are now Chairman Takabe, leader of the Seiryu Clan, and you must never show how much you wish it were otherwise.

The first day your nervy new captain and lieutenants agree it is safe for you to take meals outside of your home or the headquarters, you meet with Seong-hui at an Italian restaurant that looks across to Hamakita Park. It is now spring, the day is beautiful, and the two of you discuss a new Agreement that tries to rebalance the city against a smaller Seiryu but the unwieldy Geomijul-Liumang alliance.

“I’m surprised you’re risking eating outdoors,” she says, idly swirling the red wine in its glass as she watches children try to catch bugs against the bushes lining the park border.

“I’ve suffocated enough these past weeks,” is all you say, and she laughs.

The stitches pull as you shift in your seat, but you are grateful for sunlight on your skin, the ravenous return of your tastebuds, and the pesto rotini steaming in the air. You are about to take your first bite when you hear a familiar shout, and your head snaps left to see Kasuga Ichiban in a ferocious argument with one of those street performers that inflict broken English and beatboxing on innocent passersby.

Seong-hui takes a sip of her wine, unbothered, and you are about to follow suit and take a bite when a body smashes into the table and sends everything flying. Your fork is still halfway to your mouth.

You try not to stare as Seong-hui simply crosses her legs to avoid having her open-toed shoes touch against the spreading puddle of wine on the ground. 

“I have to apologise, I would have suggested the rooftop had our system been up completely and we knew that Kasuga was doing some work in the area,” she says, as if it explains anything at all.

Your reply dies in your throat because a street juggler is suplexed into the table behind her. Red pasta sauce flies into the air and lands in her hair and on her jacket, only for her to tsk once and proceed to finish her glass without leaving her seat at all.

So you just nod, reach down to right the table again, and the two of you watch as Kasuga Ichiban and a woman you don’t recognise wind up identical fists and strike another beatboxer along both sides of his jaw at the same time, dropping him like a lead weight into a potted ficus two tables away. Seong-hui hums, amused, and mumbles something about their timing having improved.

Mukoda Saeko slams a glittering pouch into the teeth of another street performer - _when did this city get so many jugglers?_ \- and lands a solid kick on his tailbone after he was laid prone by some tandem assault between Kasuga and the erstwhile leader of the Liumang, Zhao Tianyou. He shakes out his arm and sways into a tiger’s stance, and has he ever looked that unabashedly happy before?

Zhao catches your eye and lifts a lazy hand to waggle his fingers in greeting.

“Hiiii Capta - _ah! Excuse me -_ Chairman Takabe! Sorry for ruining your lunch date!” He jams an elbow sideways to catch a snarling beatboxer in the nose and drops him without even the barest flicker of his eyes. “You’ll have to bill Kasuga-kun for the damages since I’m broke now!”

“ _Hey, don’t say shit like that so anyone can hear!_ ” Kasuga yells in a panic while restraining the pasta sauce juggler who was gamely trying to hit him with a single bowling pin. The hollow thumps against Kasuga’s forehead did nothing except get in his eyes and make a mess of his hair.

“Ahh, sorry sorry, forgot it was big investment secrets,” Zhao purred, and not for the first time you wondered what, exactly, was going on between these two. “Oh, looks like we’re finally done? Bye Chairman Takabe! Let the kitchen know Zhao said hello and they’ll swing you a free dessert!” 

All four of them yell their goodbyes (notably, only Kasuga and the unrecognisable woman bow), nudge a body with a toe to check for breathing, then meander off in a noisy chatter as Kasuga calls in whatever job this carnage was for. There’s little to be done except raise a hand and nod to acknowledge their … apology? Service to the city? 

You flex your gloved hand on the bare table and try to focus on the feeling of the supple leather pulling on your joints, grounding yourself against the whirlwind of colour and shouting that had just crashed into your negotiation luncheon and sped off into the afternoon.

A solid _clunk_ hits the table and you look up to see Seong-hui starting to dig a spoon into a parfait bigger than her head.

“Already?”

“I don’t waste free desserts,” she says matter-of-factly.

She reaches out with a second spoon. You decline politely, and she shrugs as she continues the meeting as if she doesn’t have stains on her leather jacket from someone else’s order being flung right past her. This is the moment you realise that you will let her take the better part of the deal, because what kind of woman but a terrifying one has no reaction to the last fifteen minutes you just witnessed?

She finishes the entire parfait by herself.

In the evening, before you leave the office, you offer a prayer to the Chairman's memorial altar and ask _surely you’ve never dealt with this kind of lunacy when you were here?_

There is no answer, of course, but you go to bed that night with the vague feeling that the old Chairman would have found the entire thing deeply amusing. For lack of anything else, the thought of him leaning back in his chair and rumbling with laughter as a confused pasta-drenched lieutenant ( _you, always age twenty-six and in an ill-fitting suit_ ) reports the afternoon is of some comfort.

The weeks after are mercifully more normal, to the extent that “normal” is possible in a political power vacuum that Ijincho had not seen for forty years and daily whispers of new scandals from the CLP and Bleach Japan fill the air. The younger men can’t help but snicker to themselves over the hay being made over SNS, watching parody skits of such-and-such politician and PR flunkies when they think you’re not in earshot.

Kirimoto asks if he should make a rule about not letting the men spend so much time on their phones following the news and jokes about the news. You think about how the back halls of the Seiryu headquarters used to be noisy with life, younger men doing their assigned chores and bickering in their dorms while their seniors ordered delivery and complained about bad mahjong hands and how hostesses simply weren’t as good as they used to be.

It is much quieter now. You tell Kirimoto to let them be.

On an unseasonably warm afternoon, Shusuke-kun knocks on your door while you are in the middle of writing letters to go with the money envelopes meant for the families of the men who died. It’s not protocol, a new recruit like Shusuke should have gone through his senior Morita first, but Morita was dead and Shusuke was not. Some etiquette can be ignored when there are too many holes in your family and your heart.

“Chairman, the bartender from Survive is here,” the boy calls out. “He doesn’t have an appointment but says he knows you?”

“Let him in.”

When Shusuke leaves to retrieve the guest, you take the moment to flex your wrist and shake out your fingers. The nub where your pinkie used to be gets sore from being leaned on from too much handwriting, but you are not so uncouth as to send condolence letters typed out from a computer. There are only six more to do - you just need to remember to stretch more.

“Kashiwagi-san,” you say with a bow once Shusuke leaves and closes the doors behind him, unbeknownst to a walking secret. It’s just as well - you forget your position again, and it wouldn’t do for a new man to see his boss bowing his head to a civilian.

“Don’t worry about formalities on my account, I’m not the one needing that,” the old bartender says, gesturing at the cane beside your chair. You turn to it with some confusion, and even after a month of having to use it to rehabilitate your leg, it’s still a surprise to see it.

Kashiwagi drops a beautifully wrapped bento on the desk as he settles into his chair, and you only raise your eyebrows before carefully unwrapping the furoshiki. The silk falls away to reveal a plain lacquered box, and you lift the lid to see a handmade lunch made with exquisite dedication: a perfect mound of soba garnished with artfully placed crisp strips of seaweed and a small porcelain compartment of dipping sauce; a side of salad arranged like a blossoming flower, slices of carrots, lettuce, pickled radish slices and halved cherry tomatoes tightly layered together; five perfectly fried and drained tempura pieces, barely any oil staining the paper.

In the top right corner, the dessert: a pair of daifuku coloured a soft blue, with large round eyes made of macadamia slices overlaid with chocolate pupils. A wide smiling mouth is drawn with a firm red jelly.

“What the -”

Kashiwagi waves a dismissive hand. “Don’t hold it against him, he got excited about finally getting them right.”

It takes a moment, but it comes: the laugh rising from your stomach, bubbling in your throat and leaking out with a cough before it finds air and fills a too-large office. You laugh as your head hits the back of your chair; you laugh still as you cover your eyes with a hand and rub them with your palm to wipe away anything that is more embarrassing than this moment right now.

“He’s a fucking idiot,” you say, the words thick in your mouth.

“That he is,” Kashiwagi says softly, lounging easily in his chair and folding his hands over his stomach. 

You pick up one of the daifuku, tilt it around to examine it’s vacant expression of joy. A very distant echo of a small boy you once were is delighted, and his memory is enough to break a smile on your face.

“Kashiwagi-san.”

“Mm?”

“Before you came to Ijincho ... did you ever have to deal with such a man?”

“‘Before’, you say,” Kashiwagi murmurs as he adjusts his glasses, his eyes sharp. Your gaze leaves the daifuku and stray to the long scar cut across the old bartender’s face, the strange pattern of pink ridges that peek from under his open collar and mar the edges of a tattoo that has blurred with age.

“I knew someone. Not half as noisy but just as reckless - maybe even worse.” Briefly, something that looks like regret shadows his face before it disappears behind a wistful smile. “But he was a good man, and I miss him.”

“Is he still alive?”

“I hope so.”

You put the daifuku back in the box beside its twin, thinking of a man whose wild hair catches the sun like a halo.

Sometimes you feel like you are on a capsizing boat, desperately trying to stay upright underneath the waves of grief that threaten to drown you and the men who need you. But you push on, you must - a man in a diving bell now, slowly navigating the deep waters of your overwhelmed heart until your feet hit the first slope of sand leading up to shore. Some of the hands that push you forward you know well ( _hopes and expectations of lost men who found a home_ ) and some are unexpected: a dangerous woman who eats a two-person parfait on her own, a laughing man who would strike at gods and monsters to save even someone like you.

You close the lid on the bento and put it to one side so you can leave room for the bottle of daiginjo Kashiwagi smugly thumps onto the desk. Glasses are retrieved from a cabinet, and you both toast to the old Chairman and the radiant foolishness of Kasuga Ichiban.

You’ll eat the bento but give the daifuku to Shusuke - you never had much of a sweet tooth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like to think Chairman Hoshino was the one who arranged Kashiwagi taking on Survive Bar because a guy who looks like _that_ doesn't walk into contested territory and runs a bar as nice as that place is. Takabe still practices the correct etiquette for an ex- clan captain and interim chairman ... he just forgets _he_ is a chairman now.
> 
> Anyone saying it's inaccurate for someone like Seong-hui to solo a couple's parfait has not met rowdy Korean girls.
> 
> I'm not sure the second person POV experiment worked, but I enjoyed myself and contributed to the six people who enjoy Takabe content. Thank you for indulging me!


End file.
